Executioner 057 - Flesh Wounds

by Don Pendleton

  It was the tall wiry black man who truly worried Bolan. Cruel eyes raked over him and April, probing and gouging. Deciding. Though he had not yet said a word, it was clear that he was the boss.

  "Answer her!" the blond boy demanded, his voice cracking with nervous tension. "Answer her!"

  "Shut up, Baby John," the redhead said. Then she glanced at the black man. "Detroit?"

  Detroit squinted at Bolan. His dark face was branded with a handful of tiny white scars that freckled his forehead like a flock of sea gulls. He wore a blue running suit with orange piping down the arms and legs. The matching jacket was unzipped to his navel. He wore nothing beneath it, and Bolan could see another mass of white scars under the sternum.

  "I don't like his looks," Detroit said, pivoting and walking away. "Kill them. Now."

  Baby John lifted his Mares Frontiersman spear gun to his shoulder and aimed it at April. The redhead swiveled toward Bolan, leveling the tip of her barbed spear at Mack's chest. Behind them, Detroit walked away between shelves of Voit swim fins and snorkels. His feet, in expensive blue Nike running shoes, screeched on the cement floor with each step.

  "Money," Bolan called after him.

  Detroit hesitated, turned around. "Say what?"

  "Money. That's the one reason not to kill us." Detroit had slowed to a stop, but he did not walk back.

  "Me and my friend here are looking for safe passage to the coast," Bolan said. He had an image in his mind of spears sprouting from his and April's chests.

  "That so? Well, I ain't Humphrey Bogart, you ain't Ingrid Bergman and this ain't Casablanca. So far you just blowin' smoke up my ass."

  "We got your name from a pal. Byron York."

  Detroit snorted contemptuously. "That bastard took up with a bunch of faggots out in some forest somewhere. They're busy snorting talcum powder or some shit. You ain't talked money yet, sucker."

  "He said you might have some use for a few thousand dollars."

  "How few?"

  Bolan scratched his chin. "Oh, say five thousand."

  "Five thousand dollars don't even make me hard."

  "What does ten thousand do for you?"

  Detroit absently zipped his jacket open and shut a few times. Finally he turned away, crooking a finger over his head. "Bring 'em."

  The redhead motioned the Stony warriors forward with her spear gun.

  Bolan guided April ahead of him, wedging his body between her and the deadly spears nudging him in the back.

  They were led through the two large storage rooms piled high with additional diving equipment, and up a flight of wobbly stairs to a door. Detroit unlocked the dead bolt and entered. Bolan and April followed with heads bowed.

  Inside they looked up to see an expensively decorated three-bedroom apartment that stretched over the entire length of the storage rooms and the store downstairs. Through the muslin curtains that covered the windows of the living room, Bolan could see the street below from which they had entered Davey Jones's Diving Locker.

  "Davey Jones, I presume?" Bolan said to Detroit.

  "Take a seat, Jack," Detroit sneered.

  Bolan and April flopped down on a sofa.

  Detroit leaned his spear gun against the wall. "Search them. One funny move and pop a spear through the smartass's balls."

  A thin film of sweat glistened along Baby John's upper lip as he pressed the tip of his spear against Bolan's throat and patted him down with one hand. Bolan remained still, studying the kid's weapon. The Mares pneumatic spear gun was one of the best available, 30 per cent more powerful than a three-sling rubber gun, and more accurate. It also had a high-low power adjustment switch. Baby John's was set for high.

  "This is all," Baby John said at last, holding up the Beretta 93-R rummaged from April's purse.

  Detroit smiled like a shark as he sat in a white wicker chair opposite Bolan and April. "Smart weapon. So let's get down to business."

  "How much?" Bolan asked.

  "For what, exactly?"

  "For safe passage to California. We've got a boat connection to make in San Francisco."

  Detroit held up his hands. "You misunderstand us, man. We are political, not profit making."

  Bolan glanced around the luxurious apartment, nodding at the expensive Sony TV, Pioneer stereo system, Sony VCR. "I can see you're just plain folks."

  Detroit grinned mirthlessly. "Just our way of monitoring the enemy's values. Research, brother. If we were a corporation, this would all be tax deductible. Right, Allison?"

  The redhead smiled. "In actual fact we'd make out better if we depreciated the equipment annually rather than take a straight deduction."

  "She's the financial genius around here," Detroit said. "Don't know what we'd do without her. No, sir." He laughed at some private joke.

  "Okay, then," Bolan said. "We're willing to make a sizable 'political contribution' to you. That better?"

  "How sizable?"

  "Twelve thousand. That's our limit."

  "You aren't exactly in a bargaining position, Jack. So don't be telling me nothing about goddamn limits."

  "I'm telling you what we can afford. Threatening us won't put more money in our pockets."

  Detroit tugged his zipper up and down, pursed his lips. "Where'd you get this money? And how come York put you onto us? You don't look like no radicals."

  "We're not," April said. "We're businesspersons."

  "Businesspersons," Detroit roared. "She speaks for you, man?" he askcd Bolan.

  "We're a team. We speak for each other."

  April spoke. "Let's cut the bullshit, Mr., uh...." She paused, fishing for a name they might later be able to give Hal.

  "Lynch. Detroit Lynch. The lady with the brains and legs is Allison Dubin. The kid with the half-assed beard is Johnny Seville, but we call him Baby John, like in that movie."

  "West Side Story," April murmured.

  Detroit smiled appreciatively. "Yeah, lady. Right. Not bad. Of course, if we decide not to help you, we'll have to kill you. You dig?"

  "We knew that before we came here," April said.

  "Then you must be real hard up, 'cause right now I'm voting for the kill. And around here I'm the only one with a vote."

  "Before you start counting votes, Lynch, think about the money," Bolan said.

  "Hey, man, that's the only thing that's keeping you breathing. So start talking. Details, Jack, details."

  Bolan glared at Detroit. Then he shrugged. "Not much to tell. I've been in the Army for thirteen years. Haven't been able to get past master sergeant—bust my butt for the service in Nam and all I get out of it is a Purple Heart and a hearty 'thanks for nothing.' "

  "I was in Nam, too, man," Detroit scowled. "So cut the tears and get to the facts. Money."

  "Well, I started selling something that belonged to the Army—"

  "What? Guns, supplies, jeeps?"

  "Much better," April broke in excitedly. "Computer access."

  "Is that right?"

  "He worked security detail at the camp," she continued, "and I told him what to look for. My background is in computers. Mike here would steal the access codes with a modem hook-up and we'd sell them to people who wanted to use the computers. Then all they had to do was phone in the access code and they could use it as long as they wanted."

  Detroit looked over his shoulder at Allison; the young woman was perched in a matching wicker chair, her long legs hooked over the chair's arm, the black tubular spear gun still aimed at Bolan. "Al, can that be done?"

  She nodded. "It's possible. They're smart if they pulled it off. Worth millions over the long run."

  "Millions. And you only want to give us twelve lousy grand."

  "We didn't make millions," Bolan said. "We got caught after a couple months. A pal tipped me off that they were onto me and I grabbed April and we hit the road. AWOL."

  Detroit rubbed his hand over the white flecks on his forehead. "What about York? Why'd he send you to us?"

  "Because of me
," April said. "Byron and I were engaged when we were in college. I knew he still had some connections and I thought he might help. For old times' sake."

  "Tugged on the old heartstrings, eh?" Detroit sniggered. "You bitches are all alike." He looked over his shoulder at Allison again. "Whatchya think, Al? These people kosher?"

  Allison shrugged. "Sounds reasonable. We could use the bucks."

  "Baby John?"

  "Why take a chance? Especially now. We kill them and there's no risk."

  Detroit laughed. "He's got a point there, folks. But he don't have much of a head for financial matters. His parents own a dozen clothing stores in New Jersey so he still thinks everybody in the world gets an allowance."

  "Lay off, Detroit," Baby John protested.

  "He thinks this shop actually makes a profit. Let me tell you, it doesn't make enough to keep us in compressed air. But the place works just fine as a front for our little travel agency. And soon there'll be plenty of bucks around. Until then, we still got bills to pay."

  "So we've got twelve thousand we're willing to part with now," insisted Bolan. "We make a phone call and it's wired to you immediately."

  Detroit shook his head in anger. "Don't rush me. I got a lot on my mind besides you. It ain't easy being squad leader to a group of cherry grunts. And now we got this special business tonight."

  "What special business?" Baby John asked, licking the sweat from his upper lip.

  Detroit laughed, zipped his jacket. "A `numba ten,' buddy boy. You know what that is, Sergeant Rock?"

  Bolan nodded. "The worst situation."

  "Bingo. Guess you had some time in Nam after all. Ever fire a P-38 while you were there?" "Only at dinner time."

  Detroit cackled harshly. "Okay, okay. You got me there."

  "What are you guys talking about?" Baby John asked.

  "Nothing you'd know about, boonierat. A P-38 is a collapsible can opener. Collapsed more than it opened. But I guess our Sergeant Rock wasn't no Shake 'n' Bake wonder. He did his time."

  "What's all this got to do with that `numba ten' jazz?" Allison asked.

  "Like the man said, Al, it's not Bo Derek. It's the worst."

  "What is?"

  Detroit laughed again, scratching his white scars as he did so. "You'll see. Tonight. As soon as Dante calls. He has some information he's checking out for us." He faced Bolan and April. "That's when I'll give you my decision—after I chat with Dante. By then you'll have seen something that will impress you with what happens if you screw with the Weather Underground." He grinned at April. "I sure hope you can stand the sight of blood, lovely lady." Then he threw back his head and laughed obscenely till he shook.

  10

  The crazies began arriving a couple of hours later.

  First came a couple of kids from out of state who were attending Williamsport's Lycoming College. They wore LaCoste shirts and Chaps jeans and carried a bag of groceries each.

  With a wink Detroit explained to April loud enough so the boy and girl could hear him, "Part of their admission fee for tonight's entertainment. A couple of virgin honkies who think being radical means wearing their thirty dollar shirts not tucked in."

  The college kids set their bags down. The boy started tucking his shirt in.

  "Fuck you, Detroit," the girl said, tossing an apple to him.

  "You have, Belinda," he said, catching the apple in one hand. He spoke to April again. "Of the two, she's got the bigger balls."

  The boy flushed crimson, hefted both bags of groceries and shuffled into the kitchen.

  Belinda was a little plump, her blond hair in serious need of washing. A tiny constellation of four gold star earrings lined her left earlobe. The right ear was left bare. "Who're they?" she asked, looking at April and Bolan, her mouth full of apple.

  "Customers," Detroit said. "Maybe."

  Belinda shrugged and began rummaging through the extensive record collection.

  April and Bolan stayed seated on the couch. They had been allowed to get food from the rerigerator and go to the bathroom, but there was always someone right next to them with a weapon.

  The spear guns were stacked in a corner next to the TV, replaced by more efficient guns. The redheaded Allison was wielding a Wilkinson Arms Linda—a semiautomatic pistol with an Aimpoint Mark III electronic sight. Loaded with PMC 9mm Luger hardball ammo and fixed with the Aimpoint, even a rank beginner could score an 80-percent hit range.

  Baby John toted a Hi-Standard Sentinal Mark IV with a nickel finish, which he pointed at April and Bolan at every opportunity. The sweat on his upper lip had become a permanent fixture despite constant wiping with his sleeve.

  Only Detroit Lynch did not have a gun. Instead he wore a belt loaded with five different throwing knives of various sizes. The pockmarked walls of the apartment were a testament to his practice and ability. Particularly a framed reproduction of a portrait of a man in a business suit. The face had been shredded beyond recognition from knives sticking into it. Detroit mentioned that it was a portrait of a former president, though he no longer remembered which one. Now as Detroit paced anxiously about the apartment, he tapped a throwing knife rapidly against his open palm.

  "He looks nervous," April whispered to Bolan.

  "Yeah. He's waiting for the call from Dante." "What's that all about, Mack?"

  Bolan shrugged. "I don't know. But I don't think it has to do with us. He didn't have a chance to call Dante before he met us."

  "It sounded dangerous. Threatening."

  "He's getting ready to use those damn toad-stickers of his."

  A flat blade windmilled between Bolan's and April's faces, thudding into the wall behind them. Paint flecks and plaster snowed like dandruff onto the sofa.

  "Quit whispering!" Detroit hollered, veins bulging on his neck, his hand plucking another knife from its sheath.

  All sounds in the apartment were hushed.

  Bolan twisted the knife out of the wall, hefted it in his palm. "Nice weight," he said. As fast as a striking cobra, he flicked it back toward Detroit. The blade cleared the radical's head by a good four inches before biting into the steer skull in the Georgia O'Keefe poster behind him.

  Detroit spun, looked at the knife still quivering slightly, laughed loudly. "Yes, sir, Sergeant Rock. I'm almost gonna be sorry if I vote against you. Almost." He turned away and went into the kitchen for a drink.

  Belinda found a Fleetwood Mac record and flopped it on the stereo. The noise helped cover Bolan and April's conversation.

  "You took a bit of a chance there," April said, her hand pushing back her hair, her face anxious, frowning, despite her light tone of voice.

  "Not really. Chances are they intend to kill us anyway."

  "Mack, is that supposed to make me feel better?"

  "We have to wait until we get a line on Dante before we act. Probably right after the phone call. Just hold on tight until then. Can you make it?"

  She nodded forcefully. Gratefully.

  As each minute ticked by, Detroit began pacing more insistently, glancing at his watch, tugging at his jacket zipper, tapping his knife, scratching his scars. He guzzled two Budweisers, but they did not change his mood.

  More people showed up, including a couple of hardcore Weather Underground who had been out delivering weapons. The man wore a torn leather aviator's jacket and packed a Colt .357 in the waist of his beltless cords. The woman was tall and square-shouldered with a chipped front tooth and black hair pulled into a severe pony tail; she waved a Ruger Mark I Bull Barrel .22 around as if it were an extension of her hand. They were in their early thirties.

  "You weren't due back for another day," Allison said.

  "Yeah. But Dante told us to come over here now, wait for his call."

  Bolan watched as Detroit explained the situation to them in the corner of the room, their voices muffled by Belinda's latest selection of Phil Ochs's "Cops of the World." Detroit would occasionally nod toward the prisoners and smile. The newcomers shrugged indifferen
tly as if it hardly mattered whether or not they killed them. Right now they just wanted a beer.

  A buzzer sounded, and Baby John was dispatched to admit the latest arrivals through the delivery door downstairs. Minutes later he ushered in two familiar faces.

  "Do you know who that is?" April asked. "Yeah. Dolph Connors, center with the Pittsburgh Steelers."

  "Not him. Her. That's Carly Carlyle, on one of those soaps."

  Bolan grinned at April. "I didn't know you watched."

  "I don't and you know it," she snapped. "But her face stares at me from the cover of every tabloid every time I go shopping. What the hell are they doing here?"

  "Radical chic. Maybe they feel guilty about all the money they make, so they hang around with radicals. Maybe they think what they do isn't worthwhile. Maybe a lot of things. But there's one thing for sure. They made a mistake coming here tonight."

  "Hey, Detroit," Dolph waved happily.

  "Shit, man. What happened to you boys last week? Houston handed your asses to you."

  Dolph shrugged. "Injuries." Then he went out into the kitchen, yanked open the refrigerator.

  "He's a little touchy," Carly explained. "There's been some talk about him not starting this Sunday."

  "Tell him not to worry," Detroit laughed. "This Sunday everybody starts."

  The soap star sidled up to Detroit, trying to look good to him, managing only cheap. She slipped an arm around his waist. "Who are the stiffs on the sofa?"

  Detroit backhanded her in the face.

  "Not my face!" she screamed.

  Detroit wrapped his long fingers around her throat, tightening his grip as he spoke. "You see these people, Sergeant Rock?" he said to Bolan. "They're what we'd call white trash. Rich kids what need to belong." Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth where he had hit her. Carly Carlyle's face flooded red from his hand around her throat. "Well, ain't you gonna save the bitch?" he said, glancing at Bolan again. "You look like the kind who likes to defend women. Ain't that right, Carly, baby?" He released her throat. She sagged to the floor at his feet, gasping for air. "Well, bitch?"

  Carly looked up at Detroit, slowly licked the blood from her mouth and smiled at him. She reached up and kissed his hand. "Just not the face, okay, honey? The makeup people give me hell when I've got a bruise."